


we who wander this wasteland

by heresyourliver



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, PTSD, mild depiction of ptsd, theyre just friends trying to heal from the past thanks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28866534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heresyourliver/pseuds/heresyourliver
Summary: Set after the ending ofMad Max: Fury Road, Max and Furiosa search the Wasteland in search of an oasis.
Kudos: 4





	we who wander this wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> _“Think of all the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot” - Carl Sagan_

The evening sun stretches over the endless Wasteland sands. Nothingness. Nothing moves, nothing lives, except two Vuvalini bikes growling over the plains. 

Two years had passed since the Return. Two years of searching the Wasteland for life, two years of failure. Furiosa refused power at the Citadel; she isn’t cut out for that line of work. No, she and Max are vagabonds, searching for an answer, a purpose… anything. 

_Once, I was a cop; a road warrior searching for a righteous cause. Now… hell, there’s not even a road._ Max stares straight ahead, the last peak of the sun scorching his face. Days and nights pass, months, maybe even years, all without meaning. He’s restless. Every few months, they return to the Citadel empty handed. _My world is no longer fire and blood. Just nothingness, stretching for miles and days._

Furiosa slows to a stop ahead and grabs a gasoline canister off the back of her bike. 

“This is the last of the guzzoline reserve.”

Max scans the empty horizon and lets his bike fall to the ground. He looks in every direction: more sand. Failure. 

The last of the sunlight reflects off a glass bottle next to his bike. Max stoops down to grab it and gestures it to Furiosa. She drops her mechanical arm, takes a long swig, and drops to the sand. Another search, another failure. _Why can’t she just stay at the Citadel?_

The question gnaws at her every night as they ride. The “Wives,” now known as the Life Bringers, are there, creating a democracy of sorts out of the ashes of Immortan Joe. The remaining Vuvalini are there, helping to rehabilitate the War boys and to cultivate the garden of the Seedkeeper. Everyone (the few) she has ever dared to love is there. But she doesn’t belong there. 

Home is still out there–a real Green Place. And she can’t rest until she finds it. 

The soreness sinks in. They’ve been riding for days non-stop. Max drops to the sand and takes a sip from the bottle. They stay like that for hours, passing the bottle back and forth until it’s empty. And then another. And one more. 

It’s a curious sight, The Wasteland at night. The orange hills soften into blues and purples under the dark sky. It would look like water if the sand weren’t so blunt. The wind rolls waves across the plains, but none of the tiny, bright stars reflect back. 

Max, laying on his back, tosses back the last bottle and stares at the blanket of stars across the sky. “I miss my dog.”

“You had a dog?”

Max hums. He sits up and leans his back against Furiosa’s. They both look up, stars spinning. Whether it was from their drunken haze, a meteor shower, or delusion from their months alone, they didn’t know. 

The wind picks up from a whisper into a biting howl. Screams. _Where are you, Max?_ Images flash through Max’s head. Glory. Jessie. Sprog. The Lost Children. _Save us, Max. Take us home._ An army of motorcycles–

A cold hand grips his forearm from behind. 

His head stops rolling as the voices quiet down. Furiosa, still staring at the sky, feels the twitching slow and waits for Max’s pained grunting to stop. She gets them, too – the images and sounds… her mother’s scream, the severing of her arm. The Wasteland doesn’t let you forget. 

They sit there, leaning against one another, looking up at a sky full of stars, the sandy expanse as far as the eye can see. Maybe there is no Green Place, no salvation. Maybe they’re doomed to spend the rest of their lives wandering a hellscape. But somehow, looking up at a sea of stars, twinkling and teasing _we see you, too_ , surrounded by the whispers of the sand and the heavy sound of each other’s breath, it’s enough for tonight.


End file.
